


Something's Wrong and Something's Catching

by jooliewrites



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sick Character, Sick Connor, Sick Oliver, Sickfic, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Oliver. He hasn't responded to Connor all day but Connor's not worried. Connor Walsh doesn't worry.</p><p>+</p><p>Also, taking care of sick people has it's downsides. Connor finds this out the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello loves, 
> 
> Just a Sick!Oliver/Caretaker!Connor fic for all because I'm sick and I hate it.  
> Hope you enjoy!  
> -Jules xoxoxo
> 
> (Note: I changed the title a little 1/12. Apologies if this causes any confusion.)

Something is wrong with Oliver.

When Oliver doesn’t respond to any of the texts Connor sends him during class, Connor brushes it off with a confident shrug. Even though Oliver always texts him back. Even if it’s just a quick “Can’t text now.” _He’s probably in the middle of a meeting or on a call or something._

When Oliver doesn’t respond to any of the emails Connor sends him while walking across campus to grab a sandwich, Connor figures it isn’t anything to worry about. Even though Oliver always emails him back. Even if it’s as simple as “We’ll talk tonight.” _He gets a ton of email everyday so what if one message (or six) got lost in the shuffle._

When Oliver doesn’t respond to the Facebook messages Connor sends him in the middle of his second class of the day, Connor rationalizes it’s no big deal. Even though Oliver always messages him back. Even it’s as meaningless as “Why do you send me messages here? You know I hate Facebook.” _He’s just being a good employee. Not checking in while still at work. Being responsible._

When Oliver doesn’t answer the call to his office Connor makes on the way to Annalise’s office, Connor supposes that he could have gotten Oliver’s schedule wrong. Even though, when he is actually in his office, Oliver always answers his work phone. Even if it’s with just a whispered “No Connor, I am not having phone sex with you right now. I share this extension with other people.” _Thought he got off early on Thursday this week not Wednesday. Maybe he had to switch with someone._

When Oliver doesn’t answer the call to his cell phone Connor sneaks in from the bathroom of Annalise’s office, Connor barely holds off the worry that has been nagging him all day because, if nothing else, Oliver always _always_ answers his cell. _Maybe he’s driving home and the phone’s in his bag and his Bluetooth isn’t working. Oliver’s too much of a rule follower to answer the phone while driving._

Connor worries his thumbnail as he calls Oliver’s cell again; clinging the various excuses rolling around his head, each more far fetched than the last. Even when they’re fighting and furious with each other, Oliver always takes Connor’s calls. Even if it’s just to have the satisfaction of hanging up on him. Oliver would not ignore two back-to-back calls. No way. No how.

Something is wrong.

Something is wrong with Oliver.

As the rings give way to Oliver’s voicemail, Connor hastily ends the call and all but runs down the stairs. In his opinion, Annalise spends entirely too much time mulling him over as he stands in front of her desk in her personal office; her measured gaze and relaxed posture saying nothing of what she’s thinking. The excuse he’s given her is pathetic at best but Connor can’t manage to give a damn. He struggles not shift too much back-and-forth as she considers him. Annalise can say whatever she wants; he’s getting out of here either way.

Something passes over her face before Annalise dismisses him with a wave of the hand and turns back to the paperwork in front of her. As he hurries out the door, she calls out a reminder that “Your essay will still be due tomorrow, Mr. Walsh, regardless of circumstance.” However, there are no demands to make up the time at a later date or warnings that this is his one free pass. Annalise watches as her intern flies out of her house and remembers what it was like to love someone enough to worry after them.

Connor rushes across town, cursing both traffic and pedestrians alike. Coming up to Oliver’s building, he parks in one of the resident spots, figuring he’ll just deal with the ticket at a later date, and sees Oliver’s car still in the lot. Good. The son of a bitch is home. Somewhere on the ride over, Connor’s worry was replaced by blind rage. He is deliberately ignoring the fact that anger is easier for him to process than worry.

How dare Oliver not answer anything all day? An entire day of nothing but radio silence! Was Oliver kidding with this? Weren’t they boyfriends now? It was fucking Facebook official and everything. Boyfriends answer each other. Boyfriends respond to each other. Boyfriends respect each other enough to at least acknowledge when one of them reaches out to the other. Ignoring each other for going on ten hours was not a very boyfriend-like thing to do.

Running up the flights of stairs because the elevator is just too slow, Connor pounds on Oliver’s door. He could pull out his shiny, new key to Oliver’s apartment and open the door himself but he doesn’t. Connor hasn’t had an opportunity to use the key yet and doesn’t really want this to be its christening. It’s corny, and he’d never actually admit this to anyone, but Connor wants the first time he slides that key home to be a moment he can look back on and smile at. He doesn’t want the first time he uses his key to be right now when he is so angry with Oliver he can’t see straight.

“What! What!” Oliver sluggishly demands as he wrenches the door open. He leans against the open door and closes his eyes. “What do you want?”

Connor opens his mouth but the angry tirade he has half formed dies in his throat as he takes Oliver in. His hair is matted to one side of his head like he’s been sleeping all day and he has a pillow indent snaking a faint red line across his cheek. His glasses are gone and his nose is raw and red. He is wearing cozy pajamas and is wrapped in what has to be the ugliest afghan Connor has ever seen. “What the hell is _that_?”

“What?” Oliver looks down to take in his appearance and his movements are slow and measured, as if the mere effort of opening the door took the last of his strength. “My blanket?”

“Yeah. That. Where did you get that thing?” Connor asks as he pushes his way into the apartment and shrugs his coat and briefcase onto a chair.

Oliver looks offended as he shuts the door and glares as Connor. “My aunt made it.”

“When?” Is Oliver’s aunt color blind or something? The greens and blues mix with the reds and orange in a horrible mess that makes Connor’s eyes hurt. Not to mention, aside from the hideous color combinations, the thing is practically a rag and isn’t even large enough to wrap all the way around Oliver’s shoulders.

“When I was born.” Oliver leans back against the door as a coughing fit overtakes him. Connor covers his mouth with his arm and takes a few steps back. Once the coughing has stopped, Oliver glares at him and stomps back across the room to flop back down on the couch. “Stop being mean to me. I’m sick.”

“I can hear that,” Connor says. He isn’t really sure what to do now. Connor doesn’t deal well with sickness. He’s a terrible patient himself and has never been in a position before to care for anyone else but he doesn’t think that ditching his sick boyfriend is really going to be an option. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you,” Oliver mumbles into one of his throw pillows.

“No.” Connor rolls his eyes and goes to grab a pillow off Oliver’s bed for him. What is Oliver thinking? When you’re sick you don’t rest your head on throw pillows, you rest your head on real pillows. Even he knows that.

“Yes.” Oliver shifts up just enough for Connor to switch out the pillows.

“No.” Connor pulls one of the larger blankets off the back of an armchair to throw over Oliver. He’s careful not to disrupt Oliver’s hideous heirloom blanket as he tucks the larger throw in around him. That thing might be a cherished childhood treasure but it is not enough to keep a grown man sufficiently warm.

“I texted you.”

“No.” Connor pulls out his phone and to show Oliver. “See. No text.”

Oliver pulls the phone close to read the small text without his glasses as Connor starts picking up the tissues littering the floor and coffee table and goes to toss them out in the bathroom. “Oh. Well, I meant to text you. Thought I did.”

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” Connor makes a pile of mugs and glasses and carries them into the kitchen. Dumping them in the sink, he finds a clean mug, fills it with water, and pops in the microwave to heat up water for tea.

“Threw it somewhere,” Oliver calls his explanation. “Buzzing too much with stupid work emails.”

Waiting for the water to heat, Connor ponders what his next step is going to be. So far everything’s been simple. Basic. Cleaning up a little. Making sure Oliver’s warm and comfortable. Getting him something soothing to drink. All of that is easy. The next part is going to be the tricky part. Actually caring for Oliver when he’s sick. Connor wonders if now is the best time to tell Oliver that sick people kind of freak him out. The germs and the fluids and the phlegm and all of it just creeps him out. Connor doesn’t even like himself when he’s sick.

The microwave beeps. He finds a tea bag near the coffee and drops into the water. Seeing the honey out on the stove, Connor figures pouring a little in can’t really hurt and squirts a bunch in. He waits a second until the water goes a sort of murky brown before fishing the bag out. You aren’t supposed to drink it with the bag in, are you? Is tea supposed to look like that? Is it supposed to smell like that? Connor wonders if now is also the best time to mention to Oliver that he’s never actually made tea before.

Cup in hand, Connor wanders back into the living room and just stops for a second. Oliver stretched out while he was gone and threw one of his arms over his head. It looks like he’s sleeping but it’s a fitful rest. The breaths coming out of his open mouth seem labored; congestion in his nose and chest is keeping him from taking in the air he needs. A coughing spasm wakes him fully and the coughs sound like they are wrecking his already sore throat. Oliver blindly reaches over to grab a tissue out of the box to blow his nose and tosses the used tissue on the table with a resigned flick of the wrist.

Oliver just looks so unhappy and in pain that Connor forgets on the short walk from the kitchen to the couch that sick people freak him out. He just wants Oliver to feel better again. Setting the mug carefully on the coffee table, lest his attempts at tea making spill all over the floor, Connor settles himself on the couch, sitting on the edge next to Oliver’s side. He moves a hand through Oliver’s hair and brings it down to lightly cup Oliver’s ear.

“What are you doing?” Oliver whispers, shifting his head slightly to press into Connor’s palm.

“Checking to see if you have a temperature,” Connor explains.

Oliver opens his eyes to give a look. “You check the forehead for that.”

“I know,” Connor says, moving his hand to check Oliver’s forehead too. “But my mom always checked our ears first.”

“Why?” Oliver questions, his tone gentler this time. Connor rarely talks about his family.

“Don’t know.” Connor shrugs. “She just always did.” He cards a hand lightly through Oliver’s hair again, brushing it back from his face. “Don’t think you have a fever.” Oliver shakes his head. “Throat hurt? Nose stuffed?” Oliver nods at both. “You want some tea?” Connor nods toward the mug on the coffee table.

“Not right now,” Oliver says and snuggles a little deeper into Connor’s side. This whole being sick and miserable thing does have some perks.

Connor hums and continues to run a hand over Oliver’s hair. This is kind of nice. Maybe they could do this again when Oliver isn’t all contagious and such. “You have any soup or anything today?” From the look of the apartment, Connor would lay money that Oliver hasn’t eaten anything all day. “Or Tylenol or DayQuil or any meds?”

Oliver gives him what has to be the most pathetic, guilty look ever and mumbles a quick “No.”

“Okay.” Connor extracts himself from Oliver’s hold. “I’m running out. Soup. Cold medicine.” He pulls on his coat, checking the pockets for his keys and wallet, and turns back. “You need anything else?”

Oliver shakes his head again. “You really don’t have to. I’m okay.”

“Ollie,” Connor gently chides and walks over to cup Oliver’s face. “You’re sick. You get soup. You take medicine. Those are the rules.” He presses a quick kiss to Oliver’s lips, ignoring Oliver’s ‘Don’t, you’ll get sick.’ and heads out the door. “Text if you think of anything you need, if you can find your phone that is.”

“You really don’t have—”

“What? Sorry? Can’t hear you. Already gone,” Connor calls out as he slips out the door. Flipping the keys on his key ring, he finds the one for Oliver’s apartment and locks the door behind him.

Slipping the keys into his coat pocket, Connor smiles as he heads toward the stairs. He was right not to use the key before. Something shifted in him taking care of Oliver. In the easy, simple, domesticity of it all, something within him was shaken loose and everything else just slid into place. Before that key on the ring was just for Oliver’s apartment. Now, that key on the ring is for their home. And this first feeling of Oliver being home is one Connor knows he’s going to want to look back on time and time again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor catches Oliver's cold.
> 
> +
> 
> A sort-of-sequel to part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from tumblr. 
> 
> From a prompt from a lovely anon who asked for "sick connor and oliver taking care of him??"
> 
> Hope you enjoy,  
> -Jules xoxoxo

As a coughing fit ravaged his throat in the middle of giving Laurel directions to Oliver’s apartment, all Connor could think was ‘ _This is why I don’t take care of sick people._ ’ Because aside from the obvious reasons sick people should be avoided at all costs (germs, disgusting bodily fluids, coughing, etcetera, etcetera) sick people had the annoying side effect of passing their illnesses on to unsuspecting bystanders.

  
It had all started a few days earlier when he’d rushed over to Oliver’s apartment in a fit of worry and fury to find the other man sick as a dog and Connor had taken it upon himself to nurse his boyfriend back to health. Now, that nursing really only consisted of making Walgreen’s runs for more cough syrup and nuking canned soup but still nursing was nursing. Under his watchful eye, Oliver woke on day three well enough to head into work and Connor woke on day three with a tickle in the back of his throat.

  
As that morning had worn on, the tickle grew into a full-blown ache. By lunch Connor was digging into the bag of cough drops in his briefcase that he’d thrown in that morning on a hunch and stealing paper towels from the bathroom to use as tissue. That afternoon he was banished to Annalise’s dinning room to conduct his research alone since he kept sneezing all over everyone else. When Annalise came back to the office that night, after a faculty meeting, she took one look at Connor’s pale, drawn face and sent him home with instructions to stay home for the few days.

  
“You’re no use if you just get everyone else sick,” Annalise said and Laurel piped in with an offer to drive him home. As he was getting out of her car in front of Oliver’s building, Laurel offered to email him a copy of her notes from tomorrow’s lectures so he didn’t fall too behind and Connor thanked her, thinking for the millionth time that she seemed entirely too nice to become a lawyer.

  
“Oh no,” Oliver said as Connor walked into the apartment and fell onto the couch with a groan. He walked over from the kitchen to sit on the couch and Connor turned a little so Oliver could reach up and check his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Sick.” Duh. For being the smartest person Connor knew Oliver could be an idiot sometimes. “I hate you. Got me sick.”

  
“I know. I’m sorry,” Oliver said in a soothing tone and bent down to kiss Connor’s forehead. “Does your throat hurt?” Connor grunted his response. “Do you want to take a bath? Might make you feel better.” Connor shook his head no but scooted closer to Oliver so Ollie could keep brushing his hair. They really _really_ needed to do this sometime when neither of them was infected. After a few minutes, Oliver stood and reached down to pull Connor up too. “Okay. Come on. You have to change your clothes at least. You aren’t falling asleep on the couch your shoes on.”

  
Connor let himself be nudged into the bedroom where he changed out of his suit and into a pair of Oliver’s pajamas. Back on the couch with a comfy pillow under his head, Connor plucked the remote off the coffee table to change the channel. One of the few benefits to being the sick one in the apartment was that he (finally!) had control of the remote. Turning on a _Top Chef_ marathon, Connor gave a small sigh of relief that he hoped Oliver didn’t notice as he came back in the room carrying a tray.

  
“Tell me again, how is _this_ better than the History Channel?” Oliver asked with a small smile, setting down a tray piled high with medicine, tissues, soup, and tea.

  
“It’s about food,” Connor replied with a smirk that turned into a coughing fit. “How did you have time to do all this?” he asked, gesturing to the tray. How long had it really taken him to change into pajamas?

  
“The soup and tea were already on.” Oliver poured a dose of cough syrup. “Here take this?”

  
“I’m not eating your soup and drinking your tea Ollie,” Connor said and ignored the small cup Oliver was holding out.

  
“It’s not my soup or tea; they were just on. They’re your soup and tea now. Just take this.” Connor crossed his arms over his chest and stared at him. “I’m making more of both as we speak.” From the kitchen, the teakettle—which Oliver didn’t tell Connor he owned until the middle of day two so for two days Connor was using the microwave to make hot water like an amateur—whistled. “See. Making more tea. Now take this.”

  
“What is it?” Connor took the cup.

  
“It’s poison,” Oliver deadpanned as he went to the kitchen to deal with the kettle. “Just drink it.”

  
Connor downed the small dose like a shot and hated every second of it. He took a gulp of the water on the tray but it didn’t do anything in getting the fowl taste of his mouth. Connor sent Oliver a grimace as he walked back in with another mug of tea. “I hate being sick.”

  
“Very few people like it.” Setting down the mug, Oliver adjusted the blankets on the couch so they were better covering Connor and gave a small grin when Connor pulled Oliver’s own childhood blanket up to join the others. “Thought you said my blanket was ugly.”

  
Connor looked down and gave what he hoped was a careless shrug to mask his new affection towards the previously offensive blanket. “It’s grown on me.”

Oliver gave a noncommittal hum but smiled to himself anyway. “You want some soup?” Connor shook his head so Oliver handed him the mug of tea instead and sat on the opposite side of the couch without comment.

  
They watched chefs battling it out in comfortable silence until Oliver’s soup was done and Connor decided that he wanted to eat his soup too. As they carefully sipped hot soup from their respective sides of the couch, Oliver said, “You didn’t have to wait for me, you know?” to which Connor replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t hungry before.” At that comment, Connor could have sworn he heard Oliver mutter something that sounded like “stubborn fool” under his breath but ignored it and chose to believe that his boyfriend wouldn’t call him names when he was clearly very sick.

  
When the soup was finished, Connor shifted on the couch to make himself more comfortable and Oliver pulled Connor’s feet onto his lap. While that did give him more room, Connor had a better idea and sat up. He plunked his pillow down on Oliver lap and turned to rest his head in Oliver’s lap. He pulled and tugged at the blankets, getting them all back into place, before looking up at Oliver’s somewhat surprised expression. “Is this okay?”

  
“Of course it’s okay.” Oliver bent down to kiss his forehead and gave him one of those perfect shy smiles. Connor really loved when Oliver smiled like that. “Whatever you want.”

  
Their TV watching was occasionally interrupted with Connor coughing or sitting up during a sneeze attack. Oliver would reach to hand him tissues and cough drops and got up during commercial breaks to make more hot water for tea. Eventually, _Top Chef_ gave way to episodes of _The Real Housewives of Who Knows_ and Oliver grabbed the remote to turn off the TV. By this point, Connor was practically asleep, Oliver running a soothing hand through his hair and the drone of reality TV will do that to a person.

  
Oliver nudged Connor up with a gentle hand. “Come on. Up. Time for bed.” Once they were both sitting, Oliver stood to pull Connor up and Connor tucked himself into Oliver’s side. Wrapping his arms around Oliver and burying his face in Oliver’s side, Connor let himself be led into the bedroom. Once there, Oliver left for a moment only to return with another dose of cough syrup and glass of water.

  
“It will help you sleep. Come on.” Oliver crooned as he handed the cup over. Connor downed it without complaint but did grimace again after downing the water as well.

  
“Still gross,” he complained.

  
“I know.” Oliver pulled the covers back and Connor slipped under.

  
Oliver tucked Connor in and went around to get under the covers himself. Connor gave Oliver a few seconds to get himself situated before scooting over to Oliver’s side to throw an arm over Oliver’s chest and tangle their legs together. He was sick, Connor rationalized as he tucked his head on Oliver shoulder and snuggled a little deeper. It was okay to be needy when you were sick. “Night Ollie,” he murmured into Oliver’s t-shirt as the medicine started to kick in and he began to drift.

  
“Night Con. Sleep well.” Oliver turned to kiss the crown of his head and Connor’s last thought as he drifted off was that he really needed to revaluate his whole position on this being sick thing because right now he was having a really hard time seeing the downside of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


End file.
